Tran Anh Hung‘s The Pot au Feu (aka La Passion de Dodin Bouffant) is the Palme d’Or grand slam I’ve been hoping to see for the last eight days or so.

The director of The Scent of Green Papaya (’93) has crafted — hands down, no question — the greatest foodie love story of the 21st Century. And it’s certainly among the most transporting films about the necessary love, worship and spirituality that has radiated from every high-end foodie film of the previous century — Babette’s Feast, Tampopo, Chocolat, Big Night, Mostly Martha, Ratatouille.

No Cannes film has sunk in quite as deeply or as fully or turned the key just so — none has caressed my soul or made me swoon quite like this one.

Set in rural France around 1885 and adapted from Marcel Rouff‘s “La Vie et la passion de Dodin-Bouffant,” it’s a longish (135 minutes), meditative, story-light romance about a soothing autumnal blending of souls (Juliette Binoche‘s Eugenie + Benoît Magimel‘s Dodin Bouffant).

Slow to ripen, their romance has been simmering over 20 years of cooking collaboration, and midway through it finally results in the somewhat reluctant Eugenie accepting Dodin’s proposal of marriage. Alas…

Erotic desire is certainly a key ingredient, but their relationship is primarily rooted in the reverential worship of sublime French cooking, and the exacting preparation that goes into it. Exquisite food is a manifestation of love and natural grace that melts the soul and vice vera.

And the whole thing is lovingly captured by dp Jonathan Ricquebourg with alternate use of sunlight and candlelight, and frequently shot inside a large French kitchen warmed by a perfect brick fireplace.

If the Cannes jury doesn’t award The Pot au Feu with the Palme d’Or or at least the second-place Grand Prix…well, it wouldn’t be the first time that a jury has ignored the obvious.

Incredibly and stunningly, I’ve just been told by a fellow journo that he just spoke with a few jackals who hate it and feel it’s among the festival’s worst. There is truly no accounting for taste.

I can only re-emphasize that the God-food-soul aspect (certainly the central current throughout) mixes perfectly with the aging-male-gourmet-adores-brilliant-woman-chef love story, and that the slow pace and lack of a substantive story doesn’t get in the way of anything.

If you’re a little bit older (30-plus) and have the slightest appreciation or respect for the basic elements that go into heavenly cooking (spirit, devotion, discipline), this slow-moving but luscious film will put the hook in and then some. It got my blood going, made my mouth water repeatedly and (should I put it this way?) gave me a foodie stiffie

All great films play by their own rules and pass along universal truths with their own particular playbook. This is what The Pot au Feu manages every which way. It never feels precious or over-sauced or the least bit sentimentalized.

The feeling of restraint is constant and the silences (no music!) are wonderful as Hung and Ricquebourg simply show how various dishes are prepared with immaculate care, especially during an early sequence in which Binoche overseas dish after dish with seemingly divine inspiration.

You can call it food porn and to be fair that’s what it is, but The Pot au Feu is an exceptionally spiritual (you could even call it religious) variation upon a theme. Love stories come in all shapes and sizes.

The other day I suggested that Robert De Niro‘s “Jimmy Doyle”, the pushy, hugely insensitive sax player in Martin Scorsese‘s New York New York (’77), may be the biggest ayehole in the history of American cinema. I’ve never re-watched this 46 year-old film so I’m a little hazy, but I can’t recall ever despising a character as much as Doyle.

HE is hereby asking for other noteworthy offenders in this regard. And remember that cruel or ruthless or foul-hearted characters are not necessarily ayeholes. The essence of ayeholeism is the ability to trigger feelings of disgust or repulsion, and to even prompt a moviegoer to leave a film rather spend another minute with the character in question.

Exanple: HAL 9000, the homicidal computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey, is not an ayehole. He’s a sociopath, of course, but with the personality of a well-educated gentleman.

One good example of a serious ayhole is Ray Sharkey‘s “Smitty” in Karel Reisz‘s Who’ll Stop The Rain. (On the other hand Richard Masur‘s Danskin, Smitty’s overbearing partner, is one of the funniest.)

Thomas F. Wilson‘s “Biff Tannen” from the Back To The Future franchise.

Jack Black‘s character in Stephen Frears‘ High Fidelity is not an ayehole — he’s glorious comic relief.

And then there’s Tim Roth‘s”Myron” in Frears’ The Hit — half an asshole, half capable of growth, half-sympathetic.

Critical Drinker’s disdain feels pushed in this instance. He’s not wrong to feel angry and turned off by Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny but I suspect that most ticket buyers will be fairly comme ci comme ca about it.

It’s certainly a much better film of its type than Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania or John Wick: Chapter 4, both of which made me sick to my stomach.

From HE’s 5.19 review: “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is a mega-budget serving of silly, rousing, formulaic, high-energy Hollywood wankery.

“If you pay to see it with that understanding in mind, it’s ‘fun’ as far it goes, largely, I would say, because it also feels oddly classy…a well-ordered, deliciously well-cut exercise in which Mangold does a better-than-decent job of imitating Spielberg’s psychology, discipline, camera placements, cutting style, easy-to-follow plotting and generally pleasing performances.

“For most of the 142-minute running time I felt placated by this big, noisy, unsurprising, handsomely shot old-schooler — an imitation Steven Spielberg tentpole film that feels like it could have been made in 1992 or ’95 or ’01 if 2023-level CG had been available, and if 80-year-old Harrison Ford had been (duhh) 30 years younger, which wouldn’t have gotten in the way of anything plot-wise.”

HE is soliciting opinions about South Carolina Senator Tim Scott, who’s just announced his candidacy for the 2024 Republican nomination for president. He’s seems like a decent human being and far less psychotic (if he’s psychotic at all) than Orange Psycho, but to me he lacks a certain charismatic magnetism that we all want from a presidential candidates — the stuff that Barack Obama had in abundance.

I’m sorry but there’s something about Scott that says “game show host” or “Orange County preacher” or “high-school basketballcoach.” He has a vaguely gurgly, not-deep-enough voice that lacks the right kind of diction. Something in his vibe seems a little more huckterish than most of us might prefer. A little less eloquent than preferred, perhaps a little too goading. I liked Jim Brown, George Foreman and Harry Belafonte‘s shaved bald heads but I don’t care for Scott’s. His head is shaped like half of a bowling ball.

Meanwhile the presidential campaign of Governor Ron DeSantis has just launched, but it might already be finished.

Maybe it’s my recent Cannes exhaustion but I decided last night that I’m sick to death of the toxic belittlers on this site, particularly the deniers of the woke plague. I’m now therefore actively looking for any reason at all to cancel their presence and send them to hell. Do it, do it…make my day.

Put more gently and reasonably: Life is relatively short, and every five years or so I find myself unable to stand the toxicity, and I lash out. All I know is that I will not tolerate wolverine behavior any further. I’ve been at this racket for just over 40 years, and things have only become toxic over the last 10 or 12 years, it seems. I am a performance artist, yes, in the sense that I adopt a certain persona while writing this column, but mostly I just eyeball things as they seem (to me at least) and describe them as plainly or bluntly as seems fitting.

The uglies know who they are, and they’re about to feel the sword.

Interesting, thoughtful, well-phrased and above all respectful opinions of any kind are eternally welcome here. But the shitheads, mark my words, are getting the boot.

I believe in beauty, redemption, catharsis and the daily cleansing of the soul. I live for the highs of the mind — for the next nervy retort, impertinent crack, witty turn of phrase, turnaround idea or wicked joke.

But I will not permit the infinite array of reflections about life, movies and politics that could and should appear on Hollywood Elsewhere to be suppressed or pushed aside by relentless sneering and personal putdowns.

“These things gotta happen every five years or so, ten years. Helps to get rid of the bad blood. Been ten years since the last one.” — Clemenza to Michael Corleone in Francis Coppola‘s The Godfather (1972).

The late Sydney Pollack was so earnest and articulate, never brusque or indifferent. This is familiar territory, but worth re-watching.

From “Stanley Was Slippin’,” posted a week or so after the death of Stanley Kubrick on 3.7.99, or was it after the July 1999 release of Eyes Wide Shut? I honestly can’t remember.

“Stanley Kubrick’s films were always impressively detailed and beautifully realized. They’ve always imposed a certain trance-like spell — an altogetherness and aesthetic unity common to the work of any major artist.

“What Kubrick chose to create is not being questioned here. On their own terms, his films are masterful. But choosing to isolate yourself from the unruly push-pull of life can have a calcifying effect.

“Kubrick was less Olympian and more loosey-goosey when he made his early films in the `50s (Fear and Desire, The Killing, Paths of Glory) and early `60s (Lolita, Dr. Strangelove). I’m not saying his ultra-arty period that began with 2001: A Space Odyssey and continued until his death with A Clockwork Orange, Barry Lyndon, The Shining, Full Metal Jacket and Eyes Wide Shut, resulted in lesser films. The opposite is probably true.

“I’m saying that however beautiful and mesmerizing they were on their own terms, these last six films of Kubrick’s were more and more unto themselves, lacking that reflective, straight-from-the-hurlyburly quality that makes any work of expression seem more vital and alive.

The Cannes Film Festival began to feel like a Festival of Endurance two or three days ago, and has since devolved into a Festival of the Walking Numb. Nine straight days of delightful absorption in the cinematic cornucopia of now, and honestly? As I sit here in my untidy bedroom I’m honestly wondering — debating — whether I’ll ever return. Too costly, too exhausting and indeed draining after the seven-day mark, too many superficial people in tuxedos and evening gowns. My maiden visit was 31 years ago, and I’ve been an annual repeater for roughly 15 or 16 years now. I’ll never stop visiting Europe, but film festival-wise and henceforth I’ll probably be more than happy to confine myself to Telluride, Santa Barbara, NYFF and all the great second-tier gatherings (Savannah, Key West, Mill Valley, Montclair).

Wednesday, 5.24, is a relatively flat day. Seemingly. Humble opinion and all that. The only films that have poked my interest are (a) Tran Anh Hung‘s The Pot-au-Feu (5 pm, Debussy), a 19th Century gourmet romance costarring Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel, and (b) Kanu Behl‘s Agra (8:45 pm, Director’s Fortnight, Theatre Croisette), which appears to be a sexual exploration thing.

I’ll certainly pay no attention to Leslie Iwerks‘ 100 Years of Warner Bros. (7pm, Agnes Varda) — scratch it.

Tomorrow (Thursday, 5.25) is a slight puzzler. I’ll thinking hard about catching Wim Wenders‘ Perfect Days (4 pm, Grand Theatre Lumiere), an anthology film about a Japanese toilet cleaner (Kōji Yakusho). One, I’ve never been a Tokyo lover. Two, I’m presuming that Wenders will most likely confront the viewer with a certain number of toilet bowl shots, which naturally concerns me.

On top of which catching the Wenders will force me to miss “Rendez-vous with Quentin Tarantino” (4:15 pm, Theatre Croisette). I know this will be a fun event, and will include a Tarantino-selected secret screening. Tarantino or toilet cleaner? Answer, please.

Next comes Catherine Breillat‘s Last Summer (6 pm Salle Debussy). A remake of 2019’s Queen of Hearts, Breillat’s erotic drama “explores the taboos of a stepmother–stepson relationship.”

I wrote earlier today that Wes Anderson‘s Asteroid City (Focus Features, 6.16) would almost certainly be “another signature tableau exercise in WesWorld irony — zero emotion, wit, whimsy, staccato dialogue, a darkly humorous attitude, etc.”

Add in the other familiar signatures — formal framings, immaculate and super-specific production design, etc. — and that’s pretty much what Asteroid City is…surprise!

Having been a conflicted Anderson fan for over 25 years and an Anderson friendo since ’94, it breaks my heart to say this once again, but Asteroid City is a whole lotta fun to splash around in, eye-bath-wise, but there’s almost nothing going on except the Anderson troupe reciting their lines just so.

Immaculate style (in this instance ’50s kitsch) mixed with bone-dry humor and not much else.

Yes, Asteroid City features a meaningless, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Scarlett Johansson nude scene (nothing remotely close to that buck naked Lea Seydoux posing-for-Benicio del Toro scene in The French Dispatch).

And a delightful musical sequence featuring some wonderful Oklahoma!-like polka dancing, performed by Maya Hawke and Rupert Friend.

And a cartoonish, silly-looking alien with 1950s Warner Bros. animation department bug eyes who, in 1955, twice pays a visit to Asteroid City, the small-town site of a Junior Stargazers convention. Except the alien does nothing (no threats or love or anything in between) and has nothing to say or to teach like Michael Rennie did four years earlier…zip.

The song-and-dance sequence, which ignites with the joyful spirit of choreographer Agnes DeMille, indicates that Wes feels real affection for musicals. Perhaps if he had filmed Asteroid City as a sung-through opera?

But of course, he didn’t and probably couldn’t. Because (and again, it really hurts to say this) he’s been wrapped so tightly in his WesWorld aesthetic — dry sardonic humor, deadpan line readings, somber philosophical musings — that he can’t seem to bust out of it or has lost interest in doing so or whatever.

Remember when Wes’s characters went through actual human difficulties and occasionally expressed emotion? The kind you could relate to, I mean? Certainly in Bottle Rocket (Luke Wilson‘s glorious love for Inez, the motel maid) and Rushmore (romantic obsession, jealous rage) and more recently in Grand Hotel Budapest (bittersweet nostalgia for a certain elegant, old-world way of life that’s been washed away by time).

What is Asteroid City attempting to deal with, metaphorically or adult-behavior-wise or what-have-you?

The best I can figure is that it’s about complacency — several highly attuned, obviously intelligent characters who are, of course, nominally aware of the alien’s visit and are taken aback by this world-shaking event but can’t say or deduce or conclude anything of substance. Nothing means nothing, but they sure are surrounded by a lot of drop-dead southwestern nothingness (fake mesas in the distance, a huge tourist-attraction crater), and the film sure is an eyeful to look at. It’ll probably give you an occasional chuckle or, more likely, an LQTM moment.

In other words: “Nothing will give us pause in our determination to trash Coup de Chance when it finally screens in the early fall, possibly in Venice or perhaps at the San Sebastián Film Festival.”

Kady Rush Ashcraft‘s Jezebel riff is nothing –bitter, sour grapes flinging droplets of urine.

Wes Anderson‘s Asteroid City (Focus Features, 6.16), a quirky ensemble piece set during a Junior Stargazer convention in 1955, will screen today at the Salle Debussy at 5:30 pm.

We all know what it will actually be, which is another signature tableau exercise in WesWorld irony — zero emotion, staccato dialogue, informed by a darkly humorous attitude.

Asteroid costars Jason Schwartzman, Scarlett Johansson, Tom Hanks, Jeffrey Wright, Tilda Swinton, Bryan Cranston, Edward Norton, Adrien Brody, Liev Schreiber, Hope Davis, Steve Park, Rupert Friend, Maya Hawke, Steve Carell, Matt Dillon, Hong Chau, Willem Dafoe, Margot Robbie, Tony Revolori, Jake Ryan and Jeff Goldblum.

Pic was shot a little less than two years ago in Chinchon, Spain (between August and October 2021).

Late this morning I spent more than an hour tapping out a piece about HE’s ten favorite road films. It was called “Road Movies As Existential States of Mind.”

I’d been inspired by Ilya Povolotsky‘s Grace, a somewhat gloomy mood piece about a father and teenaged daughter drifting through Russia’s outlying regions and screening outdoor movies to small-town congregations.

When we sat down the other night Povolotsky emphasized that Grace is much more in the tradition of Wim Wenders‘ road trilogy than, say, Federico Fellini‘s La Strada (’54), which Grace bears a certain resemblance to but is far less emotional than.

I then wondered if it was fair to categorize road films into two groups — movies in which travellers seem to have succumbed to the idea of roaming around as a permanent state of being with no particular goal or destination in mind, and other road flicks that are defined by a single quest and a single journey that has a beginning, middle and end.

I then spent a long time deciding which are my favorite road films of the last 60 or 70 years, and then deciding on their proper order and whatnot and including links for all ten.

And then I saved the piece and my online connectivity somehow ruptured or collapsed. The article had failed to be acknowledged on the other end and was sent down a black tunnel-like hole, never to be recaptured. 90 minutes of hard work destroyed. I shrieked and wept like a nine-year-old boy whose dog had just died. I pounded on the armrest of a couch I was sitting on. I was so furious and distraught that it took me a good hour to recover and start over. But I’m on a clock and I can’t create another list with links…not now.

I know that The Last Detail was #2 on my list, and La Strada was #3 or #4. Easy Rider and Planes, Trains and Automobiles were somewhere in the top ten.

Note: Obviously Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is NOT a road movie.